


Dancing With The Dragonflies

by Kissed_by_Circe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, kind of, vintage vibes, what else would I write?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 14:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21272777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissed_by_Circe/pseuds/Kissed_by_Circe
Summary: For some reason he doesn’t understand yet, he doesn’t want her to know about the thing with the band. She’ll find out about it, of course, but not now, not when she’s leaning back in her chair and treads her fingers through Ghost’s fur and looks so at ease.Jon‘s band is still relatively unknown, and it‘s no surprise that Sansa doesn’t recognise him – even though she‘s one of his biggest fans.





	1. ⭐ chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a one-shot, but well, it… escalated somehow 😂 I started writing this like a year ago, wrote a few chapters and abandoned it... now I'm back and _yes_, I did some editing and so, but it's not beta-read and I'm not sure if everything still makes any sense, so here's that 😂
> 
> Set in Harroway, a smaller, but still popular college town in the Riverlands, that’s inspired by historic cities in central Europe (like Salzburg, Praha, Budapest, Heidelberg, etc.). Most of the characters live there because they’re attending uni there or want to be close to a relative that lives there. Ok, so I know nothing about bands or fame or anything like that, but Watchers On The Wall have a few albums, and some radio stations play their music, but it’s really small at this point, even though Jon’s father tries to help them a bit along.
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments 😊 next chapter should be up next weekend

**⭐**

**Upper West Side, Harroway City, Riverlands**

She’s always wanted to live in the 50s, or the 60s maybe, she’s not sure why – the timeless beauty of the fashion back then, the handsome gentlemen with perfect manners, the first taste of teenage rebellion that seemed to linger in the air and the sense of elegance that laid over everything, the whole aesthetic that inspires her outfits – and when Sansa stops in front the record shop she found on the internet, she thinks of those old times the instant she spots the bold white letters that read ‘Acorn Hall Records’.

Its narrow front is painted black, rough strokes on slivered wood, the two big windows on both sides of the doors are stuffed with instruments and knick-knacks and the door itself is covered in posters and stickers, damp from the rain that cools down the city after weeks of sweat and golden sun rays. The whole shop is squeezed into the gap between the greenish monster of a Manderly’s coffee shop and a minimalistic Fossoway store with its polished glass walls, like it was pressed in there only moments ago, like a sleepy old cat resting between the silvery mermen and emerald apples it’s surrounded by.

She falls in love with it right away, and her fingers itch to draw her notebook out of her bag and sketch the designs and scenes and ideas that flow into her brain just from looking at the battered façade of this shop. But now isn’t the time for that. She can draw later, when she’s not standing in the drizzling rain, now she has to stop hanging around in front of Acorn Hall Records and go in, before she gets wet to the bone.

Drawing a deep breath, she enters the store quickly and feels like she’s falling through time. Everything looks like it’s straight from the 50s, from the dusty guitars hanging from the ceiling to the posters covering the walls. The light is soft and dim, dusk seeping in through the windows, greying boxes made of washed out wood filled to the brim with records standing on every surface, and all the colours are faded somehow. It’s cosy, the way sitting on a windowsill with a mug of hot chocolate during a snowstorm is, and Sansa feels at home at once.

She lets her gaze sweep over the interior as she makes her way through the narrow, long stretched room, searching for an employee, or anyone that could help her find what she’s looking for, but the only other person inside is a young man wearing all black who doesn’t look like he works here, and who’s busy browsing through some cartons, and so she looks at labels and tries to decipher the letters written on cardboard boxes with a dying sharpie.

“Myles is downstairs. Should be back in a few.” The young man doesn’t look up from the coffer he’s rummaging around in, his ink black hair falling into his face and hiding it from her view. “Oh.” Sansa’s voice sounds small, and she clears her throat. “Um, then I’ll just wait.” He just shrugs, the dark leather of his jacked stretching over broad shoulders, before he pulls a disc from the carton and turns around to her. “You searching for something special? I know the shop pretty well…”

A “Yes, thank you so much, that’d be wonderful” already on her lips, she takes a step towards him, but the words stick to her tongue when she looks at his shirt. “Is that… a band shirt? Of that indie rock band, ‘watchers on the wall’?” she asks, pointing at the bold white letters, the crude sketch of a sword and their stark contrast to the black fabric. “Um, yes”, he admits, almost shyly, and scratches his neck, his t-shirt riding up and exposing a sliver of pale skin.

“You know them?” Her head snaps up, and she glances at him, knowing fully well what she, what this situation, looks like to him. The good girl with the perfectly coiffed hair and the pale pink coat, who looks nothing like the usual fans – they all look like Arya with her purple hair, like Gendry and his septum piercing, like this cool guy in front of her – and doesn’t know anything about music. Just another guy that thinks she’s a thoughtless little girl, that she just pretends to be interested in “cool” things to attract men.

“Of course I know them.” She scoffs, and he raises his eyebrows at her snappish response. “I like _Wolves In The Hills_ and _Black Pines_, because they remind me of home, but my favourite song is _Autumn Of My Day_. And the music video for _Maid Of Winter_ was quite good, but their logo and band shirts are living nightmares. These guys are going to play in the capital, they’re on the way to incredible fame, but they can’t even afford a better design, and it’d be so _easy_ to make a better one.”

“Wow, you’re a dedicated fan”, he smiles at her, softly and adorably, and pushes his curls back. “And you could create a better logo?” “I’m an artist, an art curator with a bachelor in art history, so yeah, I think I could do better than that. And I’m searching a present for a really dedicated fan. He’s-”, she stumbles over her words, almost swallows them, this is a stranger after all, “very important to me. We’re close, like, really close. And I want the perfect gift for him.”

“Ok. What do you have in mind?” He looks at her with his head tilted, and she almost sighs because he looks cute – six-foot something, broad shouldered, with black ink curling around his wrists and faint scars around his eyes and on his hand, but still cute like a puppy. “I already have tickets for their concert in KL, the one on New Year’s Eve. I just wanted something more, to make it more… special. I didn't even know if they had any merch at all, but I had hoped that someone would help me.”

“How about… backstage tickets, and a private meet-and-greet after the show? Just you and your friends, meeting the band and taking some pictures?” “You could do that? You’re not just doing this to get my number?” “I… know the drummer, and I’m a gentleman. I organise two, three? backstage tickets and the meeting, and you design a new logo. We can’t possibly keep selling those,” he looks at his shirt, and Sansa feels herself blush. Fuck fuck _fuck_. “I- I didn’t-“

“No problem.” He grins at her sheepishly. “We needed a new design anyway. Maybe we could have dinner and talk about your ideas…? There’s a good stormlandish restaurant nearby, we could go there, only if you like, of course.” “Yes, I’d like that.” She smiles at him, and mentions for the door. “I’m free right now…” “Yeah?” He clears his throat, suddenly nervous, like he didn’t expect her to say yes, and seems like he doesn’t know what to do now. “Erm, I- I think I’ll go and ask Myles for an umbrella, okay?”

⭐

The place he leads her to is a family owned restaurant, small and cosy and rustic, and the booth the innkeeper, a potbellied older man, that calls her new acquittance ‘Jonny Boy’ and slaps him on the back like an old friend, shows them to, is dark and quiet, ‘perfect for a first date with a pretty girl’, as he says. Sansa sinks into the pillows that are spread over the cushioned bench and smiles bashfully. Jon’s cheeks flush crimson, and he stares at the tablecloth – off-white with tiny scarlet flames embroidered on it, quite suiting for a place named Fire’s Kiss – and Sansa has to grin because he’s just too cute.

“Donal is like an uncle to me, he treats me like family,” he tells her, quietly, shyly, still not meeting her eyes, and when a pretty waitress appears next to them and hands her a menu with a side glare and a cheeky grin, he elaborates, “they all do. Thanks, Alynne, I’ll take the usual. The pizzas are great, but the pasta’s to die for.” Now he looks at her again, from under his long lashes, and she nods and smiles and tries to make small talk while they wait for their drinks. 

As it turns out, Donal is, in fact, his former comrade. Jon’s from Wintertown. He has a dog. He was in the Night’s Watch, but now he studies History at Harroway Uni. He really loves music. And he listens to her talk about her work and her hobbies and her friends with real interest. “I actually wouldn’t know _WOTW_ without Gendry. They’re his favourite band, and he thought that I’d like the part of their music that’s- I don’t know, the part that’s melancholic and dreamy? I’m into indie pop, and their music sounds a lot like indie pop, apart from the grungy stuff, so he always makes me play one of their albums when he’s over at my place, which is like, all the time and… it just grew on me, I guess. And thank you for helping me with the gift for him, it means a lot to me.”

“He must be very important to you, if you do so much just to make him happy.” Jon smiles at her, not a _fuck-not-the-friendzone-again_ kind of smile, but a wistful one, the smile of someone that would like to have what he thinks she has. “He is. He’s always been there for me, he was by my side no matter what, he helped me through some really rough stuff that I don’t even want to talk about – I don’t know where I’d be today if it wasn’t for him.”

“That sounds like he’s your soulmate. Haven’t found mine yet, but I hope it’s just like that you and your Gendry have when I find her.” He smiles, and Sansa doesn’t correct him. Better let him think she’s got a beefy mechanic as a boyfriend, before he turns out to be a creep. She’s learnt to be careful the hard way. But right now, he’s cute, and polite, and emphatic, and she thinks that she would like to be friends with him.

⭐

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me [on tumblr ⭐](https://kissed-by-circe.tumblr.com/tagged/laura-writes-sometimes)


	2. ⭐ chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and the sweet comments 😊 I have a rough idea where this is going, and the first few chapters are already written, so there should be updates every second week or so  
This is not beta-read, and I wrote it like a year ago and edited it really really poorly last weekend while stressing about work, so if there are any parts that don't make sense please tell me 😊

⭐

**Upper West Side**

There’s not a single clean surface in the entire garage – if there were one, it’d be covered in tin-plate signs or open bottles, she supposes – and so she stands in the open door with a box of pink, home-made, sugary sweet macarons in her gloved hands, and waits for her sister to come over to her. Gendry’s bright yellow converse and dirty jeans stick out from under an old, beat-up Mustang, some Mance Rayder song’s blasting from the sound system, but Sansa still whispers when she leans over to Arya.

“I’ve managed to get back-stage tickets, and we’re going to have a meet-and-greet with the band.” “How the- what the- _how_?” Arya’s eyes are huge and round, and she stares at her as if she just grew a second head, so Sansa clamps one of her hands over her sister’s mouth and hushes her, afraid that she’ll blurt everything out. She didn’t plan and plot and pressure Arya into helping her with this for her to simply ruin it. “Hush! You don’t want him to find out about it just yet, do you?!” she hisses at Arya, and only takes her hand back when she nods at her, rolling her storm grey eyes. “Okay, okay. But, _how_?”

Sansa sighs, too tired for the whole story, and decides to leave out the details. “I met a guy that knows them, he sells their merch or so, and he offered to get me tickets and introduce the three of us.” The short version won’t do, she realises when she sees the way Arya’s brows knit together. “Ok, but why would he do that? What does he want?” Her voice, her face don’t show her thoughts, but Sansa can hear them quite clearly, as if she were shouting them at her. ‘What does he want from you? Did you manage to find yet another creep? Should I get my baseball bat?’.

“I’m designing a logo for him, and some shirts. He’s… nice, I guess. We had dinner together – it was nothing, everything’s alright, I’m _fine_ – and he’s polite and friendly. I even had fun.” Arya’s still looking too suspicious for her liking, so she adds “I told Bran his name. It’s ok”, causing her sister’s shoulders to relax, and the crease between her brows ceases. “It’s just a job and a favour, and then I’ll never see him again”, she whispers wistfully, and ignores the sliver of pity on Arya’s face.

⭐

“So, Jonny Boy, who was that pretty girl Alynne told us about? _Another_ redhead?” “It’s his kink, just think of all his exes… Ygritte, Melisandre, and the one from high school, what was her name? Rosie, Roza, something like that? You like eating red things?” Alynne’s voice is just as sweet and honey-laced as always, but her smirk is dirtier than her mind. His friend sits in Dickon’s lap like she’s living there, her red-golden hair flowing freely past her bare midriff, an ugly contrast to Dickon’s red flaming cheeks.

He’s built like a brick wall, almost 100kg of pure muscle, but even more awkward than Jon when it comes to girls, and he looks like his head may explode when she presses her lips to his neck, right under his ear, and whispers “Your hair shimmers red in the sun light, Dickon.”

“Yeah, totally. I actually thought he was into Tormund.” Aegon, who wasn’t invited to their band rehearsal, stares at Alynne and Dickon and Dickon’s fingers on the sliver of skin between her jeans and her crop top with jealously, before he digs into the take-away boxes she’s brought – which are the official reason why she’s allowed around here – and Jon thinks, not for the first time, about throwing his half-brother out of the studio.

“Just someone I met at Myles’ record store. Promised her some backstage tickets if she designs a new logo for us. And she’s got a boyfriend, before anyone asks or tries to set me up with her.” He shoots a meaningful glance at Alys, who’s sitting in the back and files her nails, and she flips him of, because of the logo or the thing with the girlfriend, _probably_ both. Wylla doesn’t even look up from her book when she adds a soft “She must’ve freaked out when she saw you, and then the whole thing with the tickets and such… poor girl probably almost fainted.”

“That’s the funniest thing.” Jon smiles at her, “she didn’t even know who I was. Knows most of our songs, likes our music videos, despises our logo and didn’t recognise me. She’s never been to one of our concerts, and none of our faces are printed on our posters, or shown in our videos, so she has no idea who I am. She thinks I sell merch for our ba-” “Whoa, whoa, _whoa__,_” Alys holds her hands up and interrupts him. “So that girl doesn’t know who you are? It’s like a 90s rom-com.” She grins, but Wylla sighs, her eyes dreamy. “That’s so sweet. It’s just sad that she already has a boyfriend.” The others nod, while Aegon murmurs something about loyalty being so 2004, and Jon throws a cushion in his face.

⭐

Arya kneels in front of the fireplace, brushing the ash out from under the grid and stacking logs over each other, while Gendry leaves them to take a shower – with the tube of the lemon scrub peeling Sansa gave him for his birthday, because he refuses to touch anything with grease stained hands – and so she puts the macarons, or at least the ones she could save from the garage, and the take-outs boxes they got on the way, from the Braavosi place Arya likes so much, on the kitchen counter, before she takes of her coat and gloves, pets Xan’s brown and grey tiger fur and throws cushions on the fluffy rug before the hearth.

They always eat on the floor when they’re here, and she loves it because it’s just so comfy and cosy and intimate – and a bit difficult, because eating seafood with a cat in one’s lap is no easy task, but it’s still better than having dinner in her own apartment, on the overly shiny marble top of the kitchen island or the sleek table in the dining area while Margaery sits next to her, busy browsing some magazine while she drinks the trendiest diet shake she could get her manicured hands on, and nothing else.

She helped her sister choose the furniture and the wallpapers, it looks a bit like a movie set with a colour scheme and an army of pillows that have taken over the couch and the armchairs, and so many knick-knacks and candles scattered over the whole place that dusting the shelves, window sills and mantlepiece is nearly impossible, but there’s cat toys lying around, soft fabrics in dark colours and a couch comfy enough to sit on it without getting a stiff back. It’s not as sleek and perfect and untouchable as her apartment, which looks straight out of a glossy magazine, apart from the bedrooms.

Neither Margaery nor Harry or any of the people she became friends with in college can understand why she prefers quiet evenings with her sister and said sister’s boyfriend over dinner dates with handsome bankers at expensive restaurants, going to the movies with her old squad from high school over pre-weekend parties in loud clubs that give her headaches, visiting her uncle and baby brother instead of going on shopping trips with her ‘bestie’ Margaery.

But so many things have changed over the past few years – the thing with Joffrey, the crash, being separated from her younger siblings for years – and now she wants different things in life. Having dinner in front of the fireplace with Arya and Gendry with Xan in her lap and laughing, _really_ and _genuinely_ laughing because of Gendry’s comments during this night's episode of _Winter Is Coming_.

⭐

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [my tumblr ⭐](https://kissed-by-circe.tumblr.com/tagged/laura-writes-sometimes)


	3. ⭐ chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hint or two at the things Sansa's been through, which are also the reason for Arya's behaviour in the last chapter, and a look into the Targaryen and Connington families

⭐

**Upper West Side**

She doesn’t wake up screaming like the people in movies always do. No, she never wakes up screaming, she couldn’t, even if she wanted to. Her throat’s closed, her rib cage too solid, her chest too tight for her lungs to work properly, and she’s not sure if she’s breathing at all. Searching for her phone with numb fingers, she stares into the darkness surrounding, _crushing_ her. When she finally turns it on, its bright blue light illuminating the room around her and casting pale shadows on the dark ceiling above her, she starts to relax.

She’s at Arya’s, lying on the comfy velvet couch she chose herself. It’s not her old dorm room at boarding school, the bathroom of Mrs Baratheon’s elegant city manor or the old-fashioned guest room with the frilly bed sheets she slept in during her time in Gates-Of-The-Moon. ‘You’re safe’, she whispers to herself, ‘no one can hurt you here’, and ‘Meereen, King’s Landing Prison, Lady Alyssa’s Hospital’. Going back to sleep is impossible right now, as she can still feel hands hovering over her damp skin and the fingers of the ghosts that haunt her sleeping hours digging into her flesh, and so she leaves the warm, soft spot on the sofa and walks over to the open kitchen to make herself some hot chocolate.

Xan crawls into her lap once she’s perched on the counter, and she buries her face in the soft fur, inhaling the scent of hay and summer and rain that clings to the cat’s tabby coat even now. That’s how Gendry finds her when he pads out of his and Arya’s bedroom to get some water, his eyes, small from sleep, blinking at her from behind some strands of inky, dishevelled hair. “Sans?” his voice is raspy and deep and so gentle, and it calms her like few others can, “Another nightmare?”

She just nods instead of an answer, and he pulls her close, strokes her hair, hums some song or another. He’s too quiet and too stoic to make much small talk or joke around as much as Arya does, but he’s a good listener and manages to make her talk about nonsense until she forgets her troubles – at least for now – and they listen to music, she chats about her annoying colleagues, and in the end she falls asleep on the couch again, this time with her head on his strong shoulder.

⭐

There’s nothing worse than spending time with his family, he thinks, when Alynne shoots him yet another glance that practically shouts “Have you asked her out yet? When are you getting married, or laid at least?”, while his brother is his usual annoying self – he’s still living off their father’s money, and no one knows whether he’s actually studying or just going to university to meet college girls – while said father and uncle Griff want to know what happened in his life since their last visit.

His mother, stepfather and younger siblings are holidaying in Essos, Rhaenys is busy in KL because of the first official hearing of the Greyjoy murder case, Elia spends the colder months in a health resort somewhere in Dorne with her older brother, and so he’s alone with the crazy part of the family – Alynne’s quite normal, at least, and she promised she’s going to bring Dickon along, too, once he’s feeling brave enough to face the united crazy of the Targaryen and Connington clans, which isn’t going to happen anytime soon, he knows.

It’s only when his father and godfather start talking about their next tour, and Aegon saunters off to the balcony to smoke <strike>something</strike> while Alynne excuses herself to the bathroom – to send some nudes to Dickon, he’d say, if he’d had to guess – that he has a chance to call his older sister and ask her for advice. Not that he needs it, but if he had to describe Rhae in one word, he’d call her successful, because that’s what she _is_. A natural lawyer, a loving wife, a supportive friend, a wonderful mother. She’s his voice of reason.

When she picks up after the second ring, her voice is calm and collected, the kind of voice yoga instructors have, and he hears Aliandra singing in the background while they talk about her first weeks at kindergarten, Aegon’s progress in his studies or the lack thereof, the Greyjoy trial, and finally their father’s offer. “We’re looking forward to it, and we’re both so proud of you, little brother,” she murmurs into the phone, and his stomach clenches at her words. “But what if – I don’t wanna do this gig?”

“That would be a surprise to everyone.” He can practically see her brow wrinkle while she’s trying to figure out why he changed his mind. The band’s been hoping for a bigger gig for what feels like forever, and playing at some of the locations his father’s label has found for them could mean wider recognition. “It’s not that I don’t wanna do it, it’s just- it doesn’t feel right? It’s not making any sense, does it?”

“Well, what exactly do you mean, then? Do you have a bad feeling, or why? To be honest, I don’t really understand what you mean.” _Sweet Rhae, how could she understand?_ “I feel like an imposer. Because I’m _‘the son of’_. What if I’m taking away a chance from another band, a better band, who deserves it more, but doesn’t have ‘the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, _breaker of hearts_ and what-not…’”

“_Jon__,_” his sister’s voice is firm, but gentle, “you’re too hard on yourself. Rhaegar wants you because you guys make good music, not because you’re half a Targaryen. And no one is going to buy your music or go to your concerts because of the Targaryen name, they’re going to do it because they like your songs and Dickon’s body – if you ever tell anyone I said that, I’ll… you know what I’ll do then – and once you’re famous, and I know that you’ll be, you can support other young bands, and give something back. Also, you wouldn’t want to take all that stuff – the fame, the money, the immortality of a pop star – away from Dickon and Alys and Wylla, now would you?”

His weak “No, I wouldn’t…” drowns in her speech. She’s a lawyer, she thrives when she can pull arguments and examples out of her sleeves like cards, and she won’t stop until she’s said the last word. “It’s just a springboard, to help you start. I’ve done the same with my case, and Arianne is planning to do it too, to use a famous name to bring attention to something important. Because Rhaegar Targaryen’s daughter talking about her father and her work on the Esgerd Greyjoy case draws more media attention. People want to know what our relationship is like, and I used it to inform the public about the case. It’s for a good cause.” “You did what-?” “Relax, Jon, I’m still fighting the good fight. And he wouldn’t even have asked you if you weren’t that good, you know? He once forced Aegon to wear a blue wig during a school talent show so that people wouldn’t know they were related…”

⭐

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me [on tumblr ⭐](https://kissed-by-circe.tumblr.com/tagged/laura-writes-sometimes)


	4. ⭐ chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet Margaery, and more Jonsa after what feels like too long a time... and thanks for all the kudos and the sweet comments 🤗💕

⭐

**Lower East Side**

“Sooo, darling, are you coming to that party or no?”, Margaery asks from where she’s sitting on her bed, painting her toenails bright green. Her army of stuffed animals is watching over her, and if she had a shitty Domeric poster hanging above her four-poster bed and a bulky white phone clamped between her shoulder and ear, she’d look like the protagonist of an early 2000s romantic movie. Her opponents at court probably tremble at the mere sight of her. “Actually, I- I’ve got plans for that weekend,“ she stammers and tries to ignore her <strike>roommate’s</strike> best friend’s pointed stare and raised eyebrow. Sometimes, she stands in front of the mirror and tries to copy that expression, tries raising only one eyebrow and bow her head like Margaery does when she’s not sure if she heard that correctly.

“What do you mean, you’ve got plans? What could be better than a party in Harrenhal with a guy like Harry fucking Hardyng, he’s like, the hottest guy ever, and he broke up with Saffron, or so I heard.” She winks at her and smirks, as if mentioning Harry would make her go to that party. She’s over him, for gods’ sake, so why can’t Margaery let it be? “I already told you that I’m going to that concert with Gendry and Arya. It’s really important to him.” And to me, she wants to whisper, because it’s important to her, too. But Margaery wouldn’t understand, and so she goes for the easier explanation.

“There’s this guy I met at a record store; he’ll be there, too. He’s… cute. Kind. Understands me. And he’s handsome, but in a rugged way.” “_Uuuuh_.” Now Margaery grins again and pats the emerald comforter that’s thrown casually over her bed, indicating for Sansa to sit down, which she does. “So, tell me more, tell me more, _Sansa Dee_. And do you have pictures? You’re only going with Arya and Gendry, right? Maybe you should ask Jeyne to come too, you know that you look better in front of two mousy girls, because of the contrast, but maybe Arya on her own will do… the gods know that you look divine next to your sister…”

“Well, Gendry asked Myrcella to join us, and Arya’s new hair colour makes her look like a mermaid, so I’m definitely not going to be the prettiest girl there.” Shrugging as if she doesn’t care about Margaery’s opinion on her sister’s looks, she stands up from the bed and makes for the door. “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got an appointment on the east side in an hour. Don’t forget to close the bathroom window before you go, okay?” “Yeah, yeah, I’m going to close it, don’t worry. Oh, and if you screw that pretty boy you met, can I fuck Harry? He’s _really_ hot.”

⭐

**Upper West Side **

The Manderly’s they want to meet at is on the other end of town, and Sansa spends 40 minutes in a tiny old streetcar staring at its chipped crimson varnish, praying to the old gods and the new that they won’t get stuck between two houses on the narrow road that leads to the river, and texting Arya and Jeyne and a dozen other people, to try and fight of her boredom, and to find a new roommate. It’s not that she cannot afford a flat on her own – Harroway’s not as prestigious as KL, nor as important as Harrenhal, so the rents aren’t too high, and her job pays quite well, but she does not want to live on her own. Even living with Margaery is better than living with no one.

When she stumbles out of the tram and into the cold of a chilly November day, she shivers and wraps her coat tighter around herself to keep warm, looking for the bright emerald sign of the coffeeshop. This is the oldest part of town, with houses built during the Baratheon reign and century-old symbols meant to protect against White Walkers painted on storm battered walls, and a Manderly coffeeshop with its clean, modern design should stand out between the narrow, seemingly semi-decayed houses that lean on each other like old friends.

Wandering through the streets, her nose buried in the faux-fur collar of her coat, the heels of her pretty, but unpractical bootees catching on the cobblestones every few steps and her icy fingers wrapped around her phone in her pocket, she looks up at the leaded glass windows and the faded signs hanging over the shops – _Heddle’s Bed ‘n’ Breakfast_ and _Peach Lingerie_ and _Grindcorn Bakery_ – and wonders, not for the first time, why there are so few hipsters around here.

All the trendy bistros and shops and clubs are on the newer, fancier, lower east side that lies south of the Green Fork, but this neighbourhood is old and cosy and inspiring with all the little details hidden in plain sight, and the houses _breathe_, as if they lived through the Five Kings’ Wars, which they probably did, their facades pale and crooked, dark shadows show where Vaghar’s breath lingered, flood marks and lithic plaques tell tales from centuries long past, and narrow alleys twist around houses and through the district like small rivers.

She’d been drawn to the small squares and low arcades when she moved here with Margaery a little over two years ago, but her friend refuses to cross the river and set even the burgundy red sole of her heels on west side soil, and so they got an apartment with concrete floors and windows instead of walls, the kind they had dreamed of when they had met at college in KL, and the complete opposite of what Sansa wants now.

Why can’t Margaery see the beauty of the Upper West Side, and when did they drift apart like that? They had been like sisters back then, had dreamed of an exciting life in a big city like KL, Oldtown or Lannisport, maybe even Harrenhal, buzzing with life, they had wanted to dance the nights away and talk about their lovers over brunch, had talked about success and their careers, but now there are times when she looks at her roommate and sees a complete stranger.

The strangest thing is that Margaery didn’t even change that much – she’s almost the same as she was back in college, frivolous and funny and cunning, and she’s living the life they talked about so much. It’s her, Sansa, that changed so much that her old college friends don’t understand her anymore.

Maybe it was Joffrey, or her parent’s and brother’s accident, or the thing with Lysa and Petyr, maybe it’s just life, she’s no longer sure, but something changed her. The funny thing is that she’s friend with Arya now, something no one would have ever thought possible, after how they hated each other throughout their childhood and teenage years, a fight that only stopped when Sansa moved halfway across the country at 15.

But now they’re… not inseparable, not as close as some sisters are, their bond is still fresh and frail, but they actually spend time with each other, at Sansa’s place or in the apartment Arya and Gendry share. Mostly because they’re both friends with Gendry, but still – they’re growing on each other, or so she likes to think. The repair shop Gendry works at is just around the corner, she realises, recognising the familiar façade of a tiny bookshop, and his apartment is just a few streets away, and the thought calms her nerves. If this <strike>date</strike> meeting with her newest client turns into a nightmare, she’ll be able to get away and hide at Gendry’s. And then, almost in passing, she sees a bright emerald sign.

⭐

Maybe he’s wrong, but when Sansa enters the coffeeshop and looks around, clearly searching for him, her pale hands clinging to her bags, she seems to be… nervous? No, it can’t be, Jon thinks to himself, a woman like Sansa wouldn’t ever be nervous, especially not when she’s only meeting him for some coffee to discuss the logo and talk about her sketches. It has to be his own nervousness that has him seeing things that aren’t there, like the way she’s fidgeting with the handle of her bag and how her teeth dig into her lower lip.

No, if one of them is nervous, it’s him. It’s not even a date, it’s a job for her, and a lady like her wouldn’t even think about a guy like him in her wildest dreams. He’s just an army vet playing in a lesser known band, living on the wrong side of the river, and she’s an art curator with a good job, a fancy apartment and a handsome banker boyfriend (Gendry sounds like his family owns a bank or something like that, at least to him). She’ll own her own gallery next year and go to charity galas with her elegant boyfriend, and she’ll probably won’t even remember his name then.

But right now, she’s standing in front of him, her lips curling into a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and Jon can’t help but gape at her sheer beauty like a mute fish, until he can see uneasiness creep onto her face, her smile fading. She’s shifting on her feet, clearly uncomfortable with him starring at her quietly. It is him that breaks the silence that hangs between them, hot and thick like a summer storm. Clearing his throat, he gestures to the empty armchair next to him and mumbles a raspy “Hello”.

Her movements are awkward and stiff, but only until she realises that the empty armchair she wants to sit down in isn’t empty. A pure white snout’s poking out from under the low table, and a fluffy head with sad dark eyes and fur the palest shade of ice, rests on the cushion. It’s like drawing back a heavy curtain on a sunny day, that smile that blossoms on her face, her eyes are beaming, and he could swear that she squeals a little when she leans down to take a better look at Ghost.

“Can I pet him…?” Not trusting his voice, he simply nods, and Sansa scratches the dog’s ears and gently lifts his head when she sits down, letting him place his chin on her lap. “He’s so cute. I didn’t expect you to bring him.” “Um, yeah. I- I didn’t know if you’d really come, and I didn’t wanna sit here all on my own”, he confesses, and her smile only broadens when she hears him stutter. He’d do anything just to make her smile, he realises, and pinches his thigh because he’s just so damn pathetic.

“Oh, I almost didn’t find the café, but here I am. I didn’t know they had a Manderly’s here, it doesn’t look like one at all.” She looks at their surroundings, the emerald sea of velvet cushions, the warm light of the dark gold lamps, the washed-out wood panelling. “Erm, yeah, it’s one of Wyn’s projects. She wanted to try another design, something… comfier? than the other shops. All the monotonous green and the smooth surfaces made her uneasy. Like a hospital, she said.” “Wait, wait, wait.” Sansa raises her eyebrows and stares at him in disbelief.

“You know Wyna? As in Wynafryd Manderly? The heir and vice CEO of Manderly’s, the girlfriend of Dom Bolton, _my personal idol_, Wyna Manderly? How?” “Um, through her sister. We’re- friends. We make music together.” He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the subject. For some reason he doesn’t understand yet, he doesn’t want her to know about the thing with the band. She’ll find out about it, of course, but not now, not when she’s leaning back in her chair and treads her fingers through Ghost’s fur and looks so at ease.

“About the design-“ “Uh, yes, I almost forgot about it.” She rummages through her bags – a pretty purse, black leather with embroidered flowers blossoming along the seams, and a practical cotton tote – and he’s glad that he’s managed to change the subject, something that he’s not really good at, even if there’s a cold, misty cloud of disappointment in his stomach now. She almost forgot the logo, forgot this job, forgot _him_. “I redesigned the logo like you wanted it – the sword’s still there – and added a pair of eyes, as if something’s behind the sword, because they’re the watchers, it seemed fitting, somehow.”

The sword looks better, there’s more shades to it, blood running down the blade like a lover’s touch, and there’s an eye on each side of it, not entirely human, more like a beast or a mythical creature of old. It’s perfect, he thinks, a thousand times better than the crude broadsword Alys drew on a napkin during one of their band rehearsals-_slash_-pasta orgies, better than the simple thing Dickon made in a photoshop program. He tells her as much, and she smiles at him, broad and golden, and excitement rolls off of her in waves.

“And, I thought that the songs would be a good inspiration. I usually listen to their second album when I draw or- do stuff like that”, she waves her hand dismissingly and continues, “and this one line, ‘you saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath’, always gets stuck in my head, so I decided to work with it. That’s based on a third century princess”, her finger tips on one of the sketches that cover the table, spread carefully between mugs and candles and a vintage plater laden with cupcakes, brownies and cookies. Her fingers are long and pale and elegant, the nails painted black.

Leaning over the table, Jon looks at the picture she means, and recognises the familiar face of the Stark girl whose abduction started Robert’s rebellion. Lyanna Stark, the history geek inside him whispers. She’s starring at him intoningly, her storm grey eyes looking into his soul. Sansa drew her wearing a pretty authentic suit of armour, the infamous winter roses curl around her head, neck and shoulders, and her face is round with skin like velvet, almost like a child’s, but some pieces of her skin are – erased or something, because he can see the bright gleam of steel, most prominent on her cheek, and on her neck and brow as well.

“Quite fitting. That you chose Lyanna, I mean. The song’s based on the legend of her.” “Really? I didn’t know that.” She smiles, softly, gently, wistful. “I always think of her when I hear it. Your friend must really trust you if he tells you things like that.” “My- my friend?” “The… drummer?” “Oh”, he coughs, catches himself, stutters, “Erm, he’s the brother of a very good friend of mine. Sam, that’s my best friend, we met when we were in the army, and he- he told me that- his brother said that to him- I think.”

Her only response to his incoherent rambling is a very, very slow nod, not completely buying his story but not questioning it either, and then she returns to petting Ghost and talking about colours and contrasts and fabrics. Jon sighs in relief, even though he’s not quite sure why he doesn’t want her to know yet. She’s going to find out by the end of the year, he knows, and he still tries to keep this secret from her.

⭐

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Margaery comes across as a bitch here, but I love her and there'll (hopefully) be a deeper look into her character and her relationship with Sans 💜


	5. ⭐ chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're so close to Jon meeting Gendry and Arya for the first time! But not yet, and yes, I'm sorry 😂🙊 I have kind of a time table for this fic, and I hope it works out 🙊

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this isn't beta'd, and parts were written like, last year, so please forgive me all the mistakes you might find 🙊 if anyone's interessted in beta-reading this, write it in the comments or dm me on [my tumblr ⭐](https://kissed-by-circe.tumblr.com/)

⭐

She sends him sketches and texts him her ideas, he conveys the band’s thoughts and opinions on them, but at some point he sends her a selfie of himself with Ghost, one where he looks so cute and shy and sweet that her stomach flutters, and she answers with a picture of Lady sleeping on her sketchbook. They start texting about the band and history and literature more and more often, and when Ysabel’s betrothed is killed on _Winter Is Coming_, she has already typed a three-quarter rant to Jon before she realises what she’s doing. She wants to tell him how much he reminds her of the character of Ser Henly, she thinks about inviting him to her weekly Netflix and pasta sessions with Arya and Gendry, but she deletes the messages before she can send them, swallows the words before they leave her mouth, unsure if it’s just a business relationship or blossoming friendship, if she’s seeing things that aren’t there, or if he really wants to spend time with her.

But it seems like the few times they meet at some coffeeshop to talk about designs aren’t enough for them, and somehow their business meetings turn into trips to museums – they have the embroidered ribbon Lady Lyanna gave her brother as a favour in Harrenhal, and she wants to incorporate the intricate patterns in the design for a shirt, that might work as band merch – and then a few art galleries and the library and eventually a small old cinema with velvet seats and booths to see some historical movie. He asks the cashier what kinds of M&Ms they have, and says that his _friend_ is allergic to nuts, and she grins through half the movie because of it. They’re _friends_, which means that they’ll keep on meeting even after the thing with the band merch is through. She doesn’t think about the sinking feeling she had whenever she thought that she’d never see him again after the New Year’s concert.

It means nothing, it _has_ to mean nothing, but somehow it means everything – his hand over hers, squeezing her fingers gently during the scarier parts of the movie, his breath ghosting over her neck when he whispers comments in her ear about armour and swords and battle strategies, how the blueish light of the screen reflects on his dark eyes and plays on his face when she sneaks looks at him, how his lips part during fight scenes and how he sucks in a deep breath every time some knight missteps in a duel, how his fingers curls around the arm rests when someone delivers a speech before a battle. They spend the walk to the tram station talking about the movie, even though she doesn’t remember much of it, and it’s freezing cold, November’s coming to an end, but his eyes are hot when he talks, and his hands are warm, and he takes hers to warm them, too, and she finds that she doesn’t really mind the cold. They’re friends, and she ignores the hint of disappointment lingering in her chest. They’re just friends, nothing more, and she’s content with that.

⭐

“You look happy. Has something good happened?” Uncle Brynden’s voice is soft and gentle like always, that special tone he reserves for students with anxiety, stray cats and her, but it startles her nonetheless to hear him speak. She’s been so lost in her own thoughts that she forgot for a moment where she is, and he’s always so quiet around her and her siblings. His students probably hear more of him in a single lecture than she did during the last month or so. But Rickon needs to talk, so that he can express himself, he’s told her once, and it’s his duty to listen to her teenage brother rambling about school and football and movies – she only realised how much attention he pays when he made an _Iron Man_ reference once, because he watched every single action film ever produced with Rick and values the teenager’s opinion – and he tries to be as quiet as he can around her.

His movements are always controlled and full of grace, his cane is just an accessory, and she knows that he’d never hurt her, but he’s still worried about frightening her. One of his colleagues, someone from psychology, must have told him about the possibility of PTSD, or he simply realised that there could be a connection between what the soldiers he talks about every day at uni suffered from and all the things that happened to her, or Arya told him about Dr de Tarth, she’s not sure of it, but she knows that he’s concerned and wants to help her.

She sees the way he looks at her, so she makes sure to smile as often as possible, because she’s okay. Her anxiety’s gotten a lot better over the last few years, and there might be some nightmares and the occasional panic attack every few months, but she’s got it under control, thanks to Dr de Tarth. She’s got her dream job and loves it, she has fulfilling hobbies and enough money to follow her passions, and she’s surrounded by her favourite people. “Oh, yes, I’ve got some back-stage tickets as a present for Gendry and I also have a small commission,” she tells him while filling two glasses with the good Dornish red she brought, asks Rickon to put his phone away, and carries their plates over to the dining area of his elegant apartment.

They sit down together, ignore the way Rickon grumbles, _’because uncle Bry only cooks vegetarian when she’s eating with them’_ and tune back in when he starts his report about the things that happened at school and football practice today, Sansa with an encouraging smile and Brynden with the serious expression he wears when watching the news. Later, when Rickon’s gone to his room to work on a school project, they sit on the couch, lost in their thoughts and some classical piano concert that Brynden put on, until he starts speaking.

“So, that commission – what is it about? A painting, or something else?” Sansa can’t help but smile, because talking about art always makes her happy. “I’m creating a new logo for my favourite band, and I even get to design some t-shirts for them.” “Ah, those _Watchers Of The Wall_, right? And those tickets are for one of their concerts?” “On_ The Wall,_” she corrects him, and shows him some pictures of her sketches on her phone, prompting him to go into a short, but pride-laced speech about how talented and skilled she is and how happy they should be to have her draw for them.

By the time he’s done, her cheeks hurt from smiling, because he’s just so adorable, and when he wants to know more about the whole thing, she even tells him about Jon – how they met and what he does and that they’re working on this together – and he listens to her patiently before he sighs and asks her if she’d like to go out with him. “I don’t know,” she simply breathes out, the word like mist, and he looks at her with such kindness in his eyes. “Sansa, girl, you’re so young. You should go out with that nice gentleman. Go dancing with him, or with your girls.” He pats her hand in a grandfatherly fashion. “You’re too young to spend your Friday nights with your grand-uncle and baby brother.”

Sighing, because they’ve had this discussion often enough, she goes on to tell him about her plans for the weekend. “I can’t go out tonight, because I’ve got so much to do tomorrow. I’m having brunch with Lucas and Jayne, and I’m going partying with Margaery tomorrow, too, so I’m really not missing out on the whole ‘enjoy your youth while it lasts’ thing.” Uncle Brynden nods and leans forward with a curious expression.

“Do Lucas and Jayne really eat brunch, _together_?” “Oh my gods, really, uncle Bry?” she sighs in expiration, “of course they do. It counts as food, and they are practically addicted to food, so _yes_, they put their differences aside for it. And I enjoy spending time with you and baby Rickon, I see the two of you seldom enough already. Having dinner with you twice a week isn’t nearly enough,” which prompts Brynden to quirk his eye brows. “And Sunday lunch. Every single one of Rickon’s football matches. Strolls in the park every weekend in summer and visiting the winter market in winter, as well as dragging us to another exhibition or the movies every few weeks. You should go out there and spend time with a handsome young man.”

She laughs, and smiles at him, too broadly to be convincing. “Hendry and Lucas and Florian and Gendry _are_ young men, and I’m going out with them all the time.” He shakes his head with a sad smile on his lips, and he doesn’t have to say it for her to know that it doesn’t count according to him. They both know what he’s thinking, and she knows that he only wants what’s best for her, but she doesn’t want to talk about it right now, not when she doesn’t know what she wants herself.

⭐

“You really want to put on some act for him? Pretend like we’re not sitting on the floor and eating with our fingers?” Arya asks, her brows raised and her hands on her hips, mimicking her older sister’s posture, and looking to Gendry for support, but he just shrugs. “I’ll act like the Empress of Yi Ti if you want me too, but Sans, this isn’t a colleague or a potential customer or our landlord coming over, it’s your new friend, and I don’t think we should pretend like we’re cooler or more elegant or less weird than we really are. You want him to like you and us like we are, don’t you?” he asks, and Arya nods encouragingly at his words. “Fuck, you’re right,” Sansa sighs, and stops laying the table. They always lounge on the couch and the cushioned bench and the fluffy rug when they watch Netflix, and she can’t remember the last time she saw Arya eat pizza with a knife and fork, and Gendry’s _right_.

She’s been over this with Joff, a relationship where they both pretended to be someone else and pretended to be in love because it was expected of them, and with Harry, where she acted like the old Sansa, the version of herself she buried with her father when she was 17, and she’s no longer the kind of girl that hides her true self just to be liked. She’s tired of pretending, and she wants to relax around Jon. Maybe he’ll see her fighting with a greasy piece of pizza tonight and decides that he doesn’t want to see her again, but would she really want to be friends with someone like that? _No_, she decides silently, she’ll do what she’s been doing for the last few months, and _no_, he won’t judge her, just like none of her other close friends judge her.

He’s Jon, and even if she’s just known him for a few weeks she’s sure that he’s not like that. He’s real, he’s honest and open, even if there are some things he’s just hinted at, and she’s sure that, no matter what she’ll do, he’ll understand her. There’s just some kind of familiarity about him, some kind of connection between them, and she feels like she’s known him for years, like he’s a part of herself she’s yet to discover. In the end, she changes from her dress into leggings, and when the doorbell rings, she fights the urge to look in the mirror hanging in the hallway, and presses the buzzer without hesitation.

⭐

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Please note the Netflix series mentioned - this is a surprise tool that will help us later 😜)


	6. ⭐ chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, Jon meeting Gendry and Arya, Sansa meeting Jon's friends, and some secrets being unveiled - but not the ones you'd expect 😉

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and the comments, and don't worry, everything will be fine💕

⭐

**Upper West Side**

She’s never been at his place, and he’s never been at hers, but he knows that she lives on the Lower East Side, on the other side of the Trident, in an apartment she shares with her university roommate Margaery. He’s seen a few pictures of it – her workspace, the kitchen, her cat napping on the couch – and somehow he thought that Gendry lived somewhere near her, in a similar apartment with flint stone floors and huge windows and sharp edges and polished surfaces, some rich banker or lawyer with an old family name and an expensive taste that takes his girlfriend to Harrenhal for the weekend, like the ex she told him about. He didn’t expect the mysterious Gendry to live in a place like this, in a narrow house over an old, _old_ pharmacy in the heart of the Upper West Side with oriels and leaded windows and a brass sign swinging over the door.

The sticker next to the bell for apartment c reads _‘Stark&Waters’ _in a messy scrawl, there are two bikes leaning against the wall, and both the tiles on the floor and the wooden steps of the staircase are faded in a way that makes him glad to be a leather jacket and a sweater instead of the blazer and pressed shirt he originally wanted to wear, before she texted him Gendry’s address, and he’s a lot less nervous now than he was before. He spent almost an hour debating what to wear, and he consulted Sam before he bought a bottle of Arbor Gold, because he knows almost nothing about good wine, and he mentally prepared himself for an evening like the ones he had to endure as a teenager when he stayed with Grandmere Rhealla in her mansion, feeling completely out of place during her fancy dinners and vernissages, but this feels like surprisingly familiar.

Maybe he won’t have to pretends like he understands politics and the economic situation, maybe he won’t make a fool of himself, he thinks, as he climbs up two flights of stairs, until he stands in front of a door decorated with a handmade fir wreath and mercury glass baubles that immediately makes him think of Sansa. She opens the door wearing an oversized, cosy sweater and leggings, her hair in a messy bun, and he thinks that she’s always pretty, but that she looks especially pretty like this – comfortable and at ease, her smile soft and her shoulders relaxed where the sweater has slid of the left one. Her smile only widens when she sees him, and she pulls him into a hug, before they start the awkward dance of giving and taking the wine bottle and his jacket and he tries to take of his shoes and she gestures to the door leading to the living room and kitchen, and he feels clumsy for a moment, before he forces himself to relax.

He just needs to pretend like he’s confident, the way he always does, and he’ll feel comfortable soon enough. It’s just Sansa, and her boyfriend-or-not – he’s not entirely sure anymore what Sansa and Gendry are, because she never says the word ‘boyfriend’, but maybe they simply don’t like labels, and what guy would say no to a girl like her? – and her sister, and it shouldn’t matter if they like him, but it _does_. He wants her friends and her family and her boyfriend-or-not to like him, and he’s very clearly fucked, and maybe their friendship is doomed, was doomed from the start, but she smiles at him and tells him that they ordered Braavosi, and his favourite dish, and he doesn’t really care about anything as long as she looks at him like that.

Gendry and Arya, as it turns out, like the same bands he does, and when Jon tells them that he met Dom Bolton at school they start looking at him like they might accept him into their circle. They talk about music and college and about how ugly the new Fossoway store on cobbler’s lane is and when they start the new episode, Jon mutters ‘I hope Lyonel dies’ and Gendry nods at him with an approving look, even when Sansa rests her head on his shoulder and he feels like they’re too close on some unseen border. Gendry keeps commenting on the show, Arya keeps teasing him, and Sansa tries to tell her sister to be nicer, and feels like he fits in with his opinions on Lyonel and the war and the dragons, even when Arya yells from the open kitchen that Sansa should stop shipping Ysabel and Henly because it’s incest.

“It’s not incest, they’re not related to each other at all, and could you bring some more popcorn, please?” Sansa yells back, and he smiles at her, opens his mouth to support her, when Arya comes back and points a finger at her. “They were raised as siblings, that’s gross, that’d be like you having a thing with, I don’t know, _Gendry_, or with _Theon Greyjoy_, or with, gods forbid, _Jory Cassel_.” “That’s not the same, _at all_. Henly doesn’t have brotherly feelings for her, and she’s never seen him as a brother or uncle figure, either. If I had a thing for Gendry or Jory _that’d_ be incest, but it’s different for Ysabel and her Henly.” She pouts rather adorably, and Arya climbs into Gendry’s lap with the popcorn bowl. “Well, I don’t see Gendry as a brother, and no, you’re not getting anymore popcorn as long as you continue shipping them,” she declares.

Jon doesn’t know what he should think, and so he decides to stop thinking for the moment, leaning down to Sansa until his lips almost, _almost_ brush her ear. “I’ll start a pillow fight, and you grab the bowl, okay?” She smiles up at him and his heart does a flip.

⭐

“So, you’re _that_ girl”, Alys drawls, and manages to make every word sound way too suggestive. “The one that got Jonny all flushed and speechless,” she clarifies when she sees Sansa’s confusion, and then they all giggle at her blush, _them_ being Jon’s friends, cool and brazen Alys with a cigarette between gaunt fingers and a leather jacket over shorts and fishnets, despite the cold, Wylla with the bright smile in the plush pink dress, Dickon, who’s basically a gigantic, jacked teddy-bear, and Sam with a thick book in his chubby hands and a blush that puts hers to shame. He promised to introduce them to each other last weekend, and he’d warned her that there might be some japes and puns, but that it wouldn’t be too bad. At least he hoped so. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his friends around the girl that he’d like to call his girlfriend, but to be honest, he does. At least they promised not to tell her about the concerts and gigs, and they agreed to downplay the whole band thing, too, so it won’t be _that_ bad. He’s not quite sure why he keeps this whole charade up, why he doesn’t just straight-up tell her that he’s in that band, and that the friends she’s meeting are his band mates.

Maybe it’s because he wants to surprise her, maybe he’s seen too many romcoms where people hide something. Maybe he’s afraid of her reaction – she’ll be embarrassed, he’s sure of it, because of the way she acted when he said that about the shirts, which triggered a reaction he’s not really proud of, and because he knows her well enough after meeting with her several times and texting her almost daily. He doesn’t really know the reason, and he gave up guessing a long time ago. The only thing he knows for sure is that he’d:

1) like to keep it this way. Keep it simple, as simple as it can be. Just a broke college student that’s falling for an amazing, talented artist/gallery curator, not a wanna-be Rockstar with a crush on a fan of his band.

2) like to put an end this whole mess. He hates sneaking around and keeping things secret from her, even if it’s not a bad secret like his father seducing a groupie while he was married and had two small children.

But he’s got bigger problems now – Wylla must’ve talked Sansa into plaiting her hair while he was contemplating his options, and now they’re sitting on the daybed he put into the sitting room when Alynne moved in, thinking that she’d sleep on it, which was before she took over his bedroom, that little monster. Sansa has the hands of an artist, delicate and soft, and he can see some paint and ink stains on them as they’re gliding through the mass of Wylla’s wavy hair like a pair of dolphins playing in the sea, twisting and working the mass of gold and jade into intricate braids. They’re laughing, not really a surprise, because they’re both just so… so sweet, and emphatic, and soft in a way that only a few people really are. And he’s happy, because he knows that they’re going to be really good friends, hell, they’ve already exchanged phone numbers, and Sansa invited Wyl to a football match of her little brother’s team, and they’ve only known each other for less than half an hour. But the problem is that Wylla’s a fucking snitch whose loyalty shifts like the current.

If they keep going like this, she’ll spill before they can order pizza. He’ll have to shut her up somehow, even if it means going to drastic measures. And so, when Sansa’s excusing herself to go to the bathroom, he leans over to Wylla, who’s already visibly debating with herself if she should tell her new bestie or not, and whispers the worst threat he can think of. _“If you tell her, I’ll shave Mister Fluffles.” _

⭐

Jon’s friends are nice, even if there’s something odd about Alys’s voice, how raspy it is and how familiar, but every time she gets too close, every time it feels as if the fog might lift and leave her so see with clarity, the other woman smiles a razor-sharp smile and announces that she’ll have a smoke break, _she’ll be back in a few_, and _no one touch her snacks, or else_, and by the time she returns with snow and frost and the icy damp scent of winter clinging to her coat and her hair, she’s already engrossed in another conversation about music – all of Jon’s friends love _Watchers On The Wall_, every single one of them save his older brother – or about fashion or art or football or a new movie, and she thinks that it might just be Alys’s northern dialect that reminds her of her father, of her past.

Most things do now, and she often thinks of the girl she once was, what she had and what she wanted, and how happy she used to be, before she even realised what happiness meant. She thinks that she might even be rediscovering a part of herself she buried somewhere deep inside herself during the long years in King’s Landing and in the Eyrie, the part that wished for home, that didn’t want to fight but to flee and return to the North, to Winterfell, no matter the cost. She’s not even sure now where her home is. Her apartment on the Lower East Side doesn’t feel like it belongs to her, and she moves like a stranger through it most times.

There’s no place for a studio, and even though her bedroom is more than big enough for her easels and canvases and has good lighting – that’s why she chose it when they moved in, Margaery got the ensuite bathroom and the walk-in wardrobe, and she got the bedroom those windows face south-east, at least – it doesn’t feel quite right with the cold concrete floors and the huge, frameless windows and the smooth, but empty surfaces. It’s trendy and chic and perfect for dinner parties with business men in stiff suits, but she’s never looked forward to it at the end of a long day, not like she longs for Gendry and Arya’s cosy flat or Brynden’s elegant, but warm bachelor pad.

“Wylla said she might need a roommate,” she says, playing with the tassels of one of the many blankets that cover the daybed in Jon’s living room. It’s part library and part studio and part living room, with books everywhere and posters on the walls and it feels like the home of an older history student with a part-time job, it feels like _Jon_ and she feels lost. “More like _wants_ a roommate,” he corrects her with a smile, and she smiles back. His smiles are always so soft, and she catches herself wondering how soft his kisses might feel way too often.

They’re friends, and he’s never made as much as a move at her in the few weeks they’ve known each other now, so she should stop thinking about it. “If you ask nicely, I’ll throw Alynne out and you can move in right now.” He’s joking, but her heart flutters nonetheless, a bird trapped in her ribcage, and she mentally pinches herself. “Is it that horrible?” “She threw me out of my bedroom,” he motions towards the wall behind him, “and now I have to sleep here.” Which means – that this is his bedroom, kind of at least, and that the daybed is, in fact, _his bed_, and she blushes.

“Okay, Margaery is not that bad,” she admits, trying to think of something, _anything_, to distract him from her flaming face and her from the realisation that she’s _chilling in his bed_ while they’re _watching Netflix_. “Even though she spoiled a huge plot twist in _Sex and the City_ once.” It’s not the best save, but Jon laughs, and wiggles a finger in front of her face. “It you even think about spoiling _Winter Is Coming_ I’m going to do horrible things to you,” he threatens jokingly, and grabs the remote to start the newest episode of their favourite show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendry and Arya don't recognise him here, either, because the band hasn't shown their faces in like, forever (think of _Daft Punk_, _Cro_, idk) 
> 
> And yes, he's writing a song about her, again a surprise tool we'll need later💕


	7. ⭐ chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some realisations, and some phone calls☎️

⭐

He has beautiful hands, strong but lean like his body, with long fingers and soft skin marred with a number of scars – little scrapes from his boxing training and from working with his hands, cuts from the tools he uses to build a dollhouse for his niece, a big burn scar curling all the way around his wrist and up to his knuckles on the right hand from his time in the army, red marks from his guitar’s strings digging into his skin – and they’re so gentle when he traces a pattern on her palm with his fingertips, but strong when he holds her hand in his, as if he were both afraid of breaking her like a piece of glass, and as if he knew just how she longs to be held tight.

There’s a surety in his grip when he helps her out of trams and down ice covered stairs, and it’s also there when he holds a writing pad, making sure the paper stays in place while he writes, leaning back against the frame of the daybed with the note pad resting against his bent knees, and her pen glides over her own paper, trying to capture the weight of the rings hanging from his strong fingers and the tightness of his grip on the paper and the pattern of the scars. Sometimes she thinks that he has an artist’s hands, others she thinks of them belonging to a soldier, a handyman, a scholar, but mostly they’re Jon’s. She’s ashamed to admit it, but she’d recognise them everywhere, and not just for the scars and the rings.

Maybe she could get him a ring for Christmas, heavy and thick, silver or steel, with a wolf like the ones they’ve seen at the museum… maybe she could ask Jayne for the name of the goldsmith that made her custom horse necklace… she turns to a new page and starts sketching a wolf, and a few snowflakes, and stars, when she notices Jon staring at her. “What? Is my braid coming loose?” she asks, and reaches up to touch her hair, but her carefully plaited hairstyle is still in place. “No, but you look like a princess right out of a song,” he grins, gesturing to the blanket she’s wrapped around her shoulders like a cape, and she lifts her chin, ignoring the fluttering of her stomach at hearing the word, said by _him_ to _her. _“I think you mean like a queen,” she corrects him, and his grin deepens. He’s incredibly cute like this, and her fingers itch to draw him, or to pull him closer and silence him with a kiss. She does neither, though.

“Like a warrior queen,” he murmurs, his voice so deep and so so very rough that she can feel it humming all through her right to her very core, until he clears his throat and says, in a normal tone now, “you’ve got that glimmer in your eyes, and you make your designing face, all determined and a bit fierce – “ “Well, I _am _designing something right now, so of course I’m making my designing face.” He grins at her, and hesitantly reaches for her sketch pad, the way you’d want a handsome man reach for you, but she snatches it away and buries it under her blanket. “You can’t see what I’m working on. It’s a secret,” she tells him as primly as she can, trying not to grin at him, too, and he pouts adorably. “Maybe I could use it as inspiration? No, no, don’t worry, I won’t look,” he tells her with his hands raised, and they both get back to work, and she could swear that he mummurs _‘you’re inspiration enough’_.

He never tells her what he needs inspiration for, what he writes, if it’s poems or short stories or something else, and she doesn’t ask. She won’t until he feels like he can share whatever he’s doing. She has a vague idea – he’s told her once about how he likes writing songs, shyly and clearly trying to avoid and change the subject, and he plays guitar, and she can picture him quite well, sitting somewhere with his dark hair falling into his eyes and his fingers gently pulling some chords and his deep, hoarse voice singing, a low rumble that makes heat coil in her belly just from thinking about it, and she has to shake her head to clear it of thoughts like that.

_They’re friends. Nothing more, nothing less. _

If he wanted more from her he would’ve asked her by now if she’d like to go on a date, or he would’ve tried to kiss her or told her how he felt, but he hasn’t done or said anything that might show he sees her as something more than a friend, and that’s okay for her. She’s friends with many nice, attractive young men, and it shouldn’t be any different with him, but it is. Maybe it’s because of how comfortable she feels around him, maybe it’s because he’s, unlike her colleagues Lucas and Flo, or her friends Hendry and Gendry, completely her type, maybe it’s the way he says her name, so soft and gentle.

But gods, how she’d like for them to be more than just friends, to tell him how she feels and slip from the comfort of their friendship into the intimacy of a relationship, fall asleep on his shoulder when they’re watching a movie or a Netflix show without feeling like she’s overstepping a line, lean in for a kiss and brush her lips over his instead of drawing back because friends shouldn’t be this close to each other’s faces when cuddling on the couch, let her gaze linger on him in a way that’s no longer friendship and card her fingers thought his long, slightly wavy hair, to see if it is as soft as it seems.

But that’s not what friends do, and she’s afraid of what might happen if she says something. A part of her hopes that he feels the same, that they’ll become a couple and live happily ever after, but she doubts it. No, that wouldn’t happen, not with the way he acts around her. He’s never given her cause to see him as more than a friend, no flirting with her like Luc does or taking her out for dinner like Florian. It’d be awkward if she told him, and maybe it’d ruin their friendship, and she doesn’t want to lose him or the easiness of their interactions, or make him uncomfortable, and so she settles for daydreaming about what could be, and watching him when’s concentrating on something, his brow furrowed and his teeth worrying his full bottom lip.

⭐

He’s so caught up in writing and thinking that he only realises that both Sansa and his left arm have fallen asleep when there’s a sudden noise, muffled under the covers. Her eyelids flutter, but she doesn’t wake up, and he comes out of his dream, noticing all the little details around him as if he were waking up. She smells really nice, of forget-me-nots and paint and orchid scented moisturiser, and his arm throbs slightly where the weight of her head is cutting of his blood circulation. Somehow, he wishes that they’d stay like this forever, that this moment would never end, and he realises that he likes her more than he should. The next thing he realises is that her phone’s ringing, and that he knows her ringtone.

It’s an old song, and he knows it pretty well, and _fuck his life_.

He fumbles around under the covers, searching for the phone without touching her too much, because that song is the last thing he wants to hear right now, in this situation. It’s a bit of mystery to him why every single girl in Westeros loves this fucking song so much, and it’s kind of a problem for him. At least it’s just her ringtone and not part of her sex playlist – he still can’t think of his high school crush Ros and how embarrassing it was when they were making out and the song started playing – and he’s so concentrated on getting the phone and getting the music to stop that he only realises what he’s doing when he’s holding it. Should he answer it? What should he say?

According to the caller ID it’s _Margaery Tyrell 🌹__ (roommate)_, and he hesitates for a moment, but then he answers. Maybe she needs help, maybe something happened with Sansa’s uncle or her siblings, maybe it’s urgent. He doesn’t allow himself to think about how awkward this could be. “Sansa Stark’s phone, this is Jon Snow,” he says, a dim memory of his Grandmere Rhealla answering the phone in the back of his mind, regal and elegant as always, a relic from before the war, from a time long gone, and he can _hear_ how Margaery’s brows knit together, how her mouth tightens. She doesn’t greet him, she jumps right in, and he remembers that she’s a lawyer, same as his sister.

“Why do you have Sansa’s phone? Where is she? She should be home by now.” There’s a silent accusation in her voice, and he realises that she’s protective of Sansa, not like her sister or her best friend, but protective all the same. “We’re at my apartment, we watched some show and she fell asleep on the couch. Is everything alright, has something happened? Should I wake her up?” “No.” Her teeth are still clenched, but she sounds reassured now, at least a bit. “I was worried because she’s always home by 10, or she calls, but if she’s over at yours – just remember that I know where you live, okay?” “I do. I’ll tell her that you called.” “You don’t have to, just make sure that she gets home safely.” “I will.” “Good.” She sounds like a mobster, and the line goes dead again.

He sighs, and leans back. Sansa is still sleeping, and he can’t get the refrain of that fucking song out of his head. Why, just why, does every girl love that song so much? Why does his father have to haunt him like this?

⭐

Mance Ryder’s yelling isn’t something you’d like to hear when you’re under the shower with a face full of foam, and Alys almost slips when she hears it, before she yanks back the curtain and fumbles through the clothes on the stool next to the shower for her phone, soapy water and foam dripping on everything. The screen is barely visible through the fogged glass, and she hopes that she tips on the right button, when the loud rock music stops and is replaced by silence. “Good evening, this is Alys Karstark,” she says, trying to switch to the polite, professional, fake-sounding voice she uses at work. The woman on the other end uses the same voice, but hers sounds a lot better, a lot more professional.

But then again, this woman is probably sitting on a desk in some office in a suit with perfectly coifed hair and a perfect posture, not butt naked and dripping soapy water all over the place. “Good evening, this is Ellie Beesbury, from Asher Florent’s office.” Alys pinches her forearm, to make sure that she didn’t slip and hit her head on the edge of the tub, and swallows. “My employer is currently producing _Winter Is Coming _for Netflix Westeros – have you heard of it?” “Yes, of course, I mean – everyone knows _Winter Is Coming_, and we’re, that is, the band, are big fans. It’s a wonderful show.”

She tries to sound as casual as Miss Beesbury, as if this was small talk, as if she wasn’t standing naked in her bathroom covered in shower foam and everything, with shampoo dripping onto Harry’s uniform on the heater, as if she wasn’t seconds away from fainting because of her nerves. “That’s _wonderful_ to hear. _Well_, Mister Florent would like to include an original song by a contemporary artist or band in this season’s final episode – we originally approached Rhaegar Targaryen’s office, but it’s quite a pressing matter, and he _personally_ recommended your band, so–“ “Yes,” Alys cuts her off, gripping the sink for support, not really believing what she’s hearing.

“We’d need a song in two weeks, preferably less, if you think you could do it.” There’s a hint of something in Miss Beesbury’s voice, desperation and stress mixed with relief and a sliver of hope. Wylla mentioned something about a well-known singer working on the soundtrack of _Winter Is Coming_, something she read in a magazine. Maybe they quit, and now there’s the chance for _Watchers On The Wall_. “If you give me an hour, two _max_, and your email address – I just need to get a pen–” she says into the phone, and hears the relief in Miss Beesbury’s voice clearly now. Stepping out into the hallway, not caring about how she’s naked and cold and still foamy, she pauses the call and allows herself to screech in excitement. Then she yells, at the top of her lungs, “_Hae-rry, go get me a pen!_”

⭐

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow everything's working out nicely so far, and I'm kinda ahead of scedule right now... suspicous, I know 😂


	8. ⭐ chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot, if you'd call it that, is gaining speed 🚂 gifts are being wrapped, apartments are being cleaned, season finales are being watched, and I'm almost sure that my posting schedule is going to work out...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My family (excluding the part that doesn't know that I'm writing fanfiction lol, but including my kitties Circe & Fuchs), and I wish you all happy, stressfree holidays 🤗💕(there will be another update this month, so no 'happy new year' yet)

⭐

“Maybe we could use some tape?” Jon asks, and Alys nods. “Does anyone _have_ tape?” They both look around the room, Sam, Aegon, Alynne all shake their heads, and Alys sighs. “Would duct tape work?” Dickon asks, and Alys shrugs. “I think so,” she says, “Do you have some?” Dickon shakes his head, and Alys facepalms herself, falling back on the rug she’s sitting on with an exasperated sigh. “In this one movie they lock this guy, he’s a drug addict or something like that, in a bathroom for a day or so,” Sam offers, and Jon wants to ask how that would work out, with food and everything, when the subject of their discussion huffs and murmurs something about them overreacting. Wylla is sitting cross-legged on the daybed with Ghost’s head in her lap and her fingers in his fur, probably trying to braid it again, and looks rather – _disappointed_ and _miserable,_ and he’s apologising to her once he sees it.

“I’m sorry, I really am. It’s not funny,” he glances at the others, and they all look sorry, too, “But you know how important this is, and you don’t want to spoil it, do you?”

“I don’t. It’s just so difficult, because I’m so happy and so giddy and I want to tell the whole world…”

“I know. But I haven’t told anyone yet, because it might not work out for us this time. Maybe they get someone else, who’s famous or has a bigger fanbase, or someone whose music fits more with what Florent has in mind, or maybe Dareon Lover changes his mind again, and they use the original scene they filmed back when he wrote the music for season 5, or maybe…”

“Jon, stop. You’re overthinking again.” And he is. It’s just too good to be true, it’s _unreal_. Maybe it’s just a prank someone decided to play on them, and from what he remembers from Dareon ‘Lover’ Flowers from their days at basic training he wouldn’t put it behind the semi popular singer-songwriter to try and get back at him for something that happened years ago. Dareon writing a song for the season finale of _Winter Is Coming_ has surprised all of them, and that no one but them and the studio know of it and that they’ve been asked to compose a new song after Dareon has ditched them two weeks before the episode is supposed to air, and weeks after filming wrapped is all a bit suspicious, but if this is real then it’s their big chance, the chance of a lifetime, and they can’t afford to say no.

Even if it’s just an elaborate prank there’s nothing to lose – someone at Rhaegar’s office has read all contracts before they signed them, and they already wanted to record the song he’s written after a long night spent with Sansa, where they discussed the current season and gorged on peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches, during their next visit to the recording studio, so there’s not much to invest on their side of the bargain, but _still _– his anxiety is acting up because it just seems too easy. There’s not much to do now, save for waiting and hoping and looking forward to next Sunday evening, when the season finale is set to air. “Everything will be well,” Sam says in his soft, calming voice, rubbing Wylla’s shoulder, “And no one will say anything, okay?”

⭐

Margaery’s sitting in front of her vanity, dusting powder on her perfect little nose and humming along to an airy tune coming from the speakers hidden in the walls. She recognises the song – Bethany Fair-Fingers is a popular singer-songwriter, and she still likes her catchy pop songs, even if she no longer dances to them all night long at sleepovers and at clubs. Sometimes she misses the girl she once was, but then again, that girl is dead now, and the new Sansa has exchanged those break-up songs in favour of something else. Looking into Margaery’s bedroom is weird now, too – it’s so different from her own, and from all the places her other friends live at. Jeyne Poole’s crappy apartment is filled to the brim with DIY projects and the materials she needs for them, Wylla is on a vintage trip, Beth Cassel has too many potted plants, and Jayne Bracken shares her place with three dogs. They’re messy and cosy and not at all put together, a stark contrast to her roommate, and she wonders what she’d be like if all those things hadn’t happened to her.

But they _have _happened to her, and she can pretend like she belongs here, in this polished world with casual sex and fast careers and people who look like diamonds, but she doesn’t. Margaery is the one that has a different lover every other week, that goes on dates and parties in Harrenhal on the weekends, even if it’s a two hour drive out there, she’s the one that’s working towards promotion after promotion and wants to be a junior partner by the end of that or that year, the one who has too many shoes and too many followers on Instagram. Margaery’s living the life they dreamt of back in college, before everything went downhill for Sansa, and she’s happy and it’s a good life, but it’s not what Sansa wants anymore, and she realises it once more in this moment. Her friend seems so far away from her, like the princesses in movies did when she was a child, and she gathers up her courage and raps her knuckles on the frame of the open door.

“Hey, do you have a minute?” she asks, making sure not to sound like she has bad news, and Margaery nods and waves her over. Her friend turns in front of the mirror, pulling on her hair, asking “Should I wear it up or down?” and Sansa says “I’ll braid it,” earning a hum of gratitude from her.

“We used to do this all the time – remember when Megga got dumped by Mark Mullendore, and we decided to crash his party, and you made her look so sexy with those braids…?”

“Yeah, that was fun,” and she can’t help the smile tugging on her lips. They really had some fun back then, but now… “We haven’t done anything like that in some time now – you’re always busy with your squad, and with your work, and with Harry.” She makes her voice soft, understanding. There’s no accusation in her words, just the truth.

“And I’m always at the gallery, or on the West Side, and – we’re just on different paths in life now, don’t you think?” _Why is this feeling so much like a break-up?_, she wonders, while Margaery hums along. The braids are done, exposing Margaery’s long neck and toned shoulders, and she looks like she’s satisfied with the result, but when she turns around on her stool there’s something else in her expression, too. “We really had a lot of fun together, and we’ve been through so much, break-ups and college and all the horrible things that happened.” Her brown eyes are shining, like a beautiful, but sad doe’s, and she looks down at her perfectly manicured nails. “We’re drifting apart. You have friends I’ve never met, and I don’t know what you’re doing most of the time, and I realised that we’re almost strangers now.” She sniffles, snorts, wipes at her eyes a bit, carefully avoiding her makeup.

“People change, it’s the course of things,” Sansa whispers, and hugs her, and she doesn’t know if she cries over the end of their close friendship or for the girl she once was or the girl she’ll never be again, but she knows that this isn’t the end. Not yet.

“I’ve been thinking about moving to the West Side, to be closer to Rickon and Brynden.”

“You should. I should’ve never held you back, but I thought it was only temporary, that everything would turn back to the way it was before.”

“I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. Don’t think about me now, I’ll be okay – I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how. I have a job offer, a big practice in Harrenhal.”

“Take it. Move there. Be happy. And I promise you, we’ll stay friends no matter what, okay?”

“Okay.”

⭐

Brynden’s desk is one of her favourite pieces of furniture. It’s old, from the early 1800s, it survived a few floods back in Riverrun, where her uncle Edmure still lives in the old mansion that’s been in her mother’s family for centuries, and the beautiful blue paint it’s covered in is so hard that the carpenter Brynden hired a few years back couldn’t get it of when he renovated it. When they moved in with him, she and Arya had to sleep in the study because Brynden’s bachelor pad is just that – an apartment with only two bedrooms, more than enough room for him and Rickon, but still two small for three children – and when she woke up from a nightmare she would hold onto the wood as if it where an anchor, a reminder that she was in a safe place now.

Usually it’s covered in papers and pens and maps, but she put aside the laptop and the antique lamp and everything else, to have enough room for her wrapping paper and her scissors and her tape. The study is the quietest place in the whole flat, and now that her own apartment is filled with handymen and people from the moving company packing up and moving furniture and painting the walls, she’s fled to her uncle’s place to wrap all her presents. His present is already done, to make sure that it’s really a surprise on Christmas Eve, and he lingers in the open doorway or near the shelves, commenting on the things she got for Arya and Gendry and Wylla and asking her again if she’s sure that Gendry will like what he’s bought him.

“Is that for Rickon? I don’t think he’s reached that point yet,” he asks, picking up the ring laying on her notebook and examining it. “What point?” she asks back without looking up, still busy trying to figure out how to wrap up the jade-coloured tea pot she got for Wylla, and he chuckles. “The point where he starts wearing jewellery. You know how boys can be, they need to be old enough and have enough confidence to, as you would say, _rock that look_.” Now she looks up, and reaches for the ring, her cheeks warm and the teapot forgotten. “That’s not for Rickon.” “Oh, alright. I just thought, because of the wolves…” She clears her throat and hopes that he won’t be able to read her mind, and mumbles “That’s for Jon.” He hears her, and suddenly his face and his tone are serious. “Oh. _Oh_.” “We’re just friends, okay? I’m not sure if he wants more, and I don’t want to embarrass myself if I misunderstood his intentions–“ “I know, _gods_, I know that feeling so well.” He’s looking sad now, so sad that it breaks her heart, and they sit down on the loveseat she slept on during her first days in freedom, and she holds him for a bit.

“You don’t know just how often I thought like that, especially during the war. There were moments when I thought about just telling him, and I almost never did.” She knows who he’s talking of, and she knows that they never saw each other again – they just went back to their kingdoms, to their families after the war, and never talked about it again until Brynden opened up about it a few years back, and she knows what he means. “It’s a risk, but a risk worth taking, and you can always ask his friends first, text Sam or talk to Wylla and see what they mean, and always remember, it’s better to risk and lose than to never risk anything and die a coward.”

“I know, I know. You weren’t a coward. You told him, and I should tell Jon. You’re right.”

“I’m right, but I’m still a coward.”

“You’re not. You were brave for the time you lived in, and I’m going to be brave for the time I live in.”

“That’s my girl. Now, should I hold that bastard of a teapot down while you wrap it?” 

⭐

“You really ditched her to watch it with us?” Alys asks from her place on the pink velvet couch, her brows raised and her phone in her hand, and Wylla shakes her head. “I can’t believe that you haven’t told her yet. If you had, she’d be here with us now, shaking in anticipation and praying that it’s true, that it’s real, that it’s not just a prank, that they actually used our song instead of Dareon’s, that–“

_“Yes,_ yes, I get it. She’d be holding your hand now.”

“No, she’d be holding yours. She likes you, even if you’re too blind or too dumb to see it,” Wylla states matter-of-factly, and Alys nods along, her fingers in her mouth – if they don’t start the episode soon she’ll be done with her nails and start chewing off her fingers instead – and Jon sighs.

They’ve had this conversation a few times now. Wylla wants him to tell Sansa the truth, most likely because they’re becoming fast friends and because Sansa might move in with the jade-haired girl sometime in January and because Wylla can’t keep a secret to herself. And it’ll be over soon enough anyway, with the concert on New Year’s Eve. His secret won’t stay a secret much longer anyway, and Wylla starts to sound right. He should’ve told her right at the start, he shouldn’t have kept it a secret at all, and now he’s waiting for the right moment to tell her. He wants to tell her, but he doesn’t want to do it too late. She deserves to know, and he’s already come to the decision to tell her after Christmas and before the concert, but he dreads it nonetheless. What if she’s angry, what if he loses her trust or her respect? What if she feels embarrassed, or uncomfortable, what if she’ll resent him for not telling her sooner? What if–

The thoughts of her rejection, of losing her, of her cutting him out of her life are almost too much for him, and he didn’t admit it to himself before, but he’s _scared_. If he told her she might be here right now, getting ready to watch the season finale of _Winter Is Coming_ with him and the band, but instead she’s with her sister and other friends right now, having a little viewing party at Arya’s apartment, probably wondering why he doesn’t want to watch it with her. According to Wylla, she texted her earlier, to ask her newest friend if he’s mad at her, if she did something wrong, if she accidentally spoiled some plot point – as if she could, he’s read all the books and she’s only on the fourth, and her predictions based on the costumes don’t really count – and now he’s feeling even more guilty than before, _as he should._

She doesn’t deserve a guy that lies to her and keeps things secret and makes their friends keep secrets from her, she deserves a good man, an honest man, someone who invites her to watch _Winter Is Coming_ with his squad instead of leaving her alone in her agony over the uncertainty of her OTP’s survival. He didn’t even tell her about the band’s involvement, keeping up the ruse with the _‘he’s friends with the drummer’s brother’_ thing, which isn’t technically a lie but somehow worse. When they talked about the show having some band or artist write a song for one of the episode like they did during last year’s season, he told her that it might be a band she knows, and pretended like Dom Bolton told him that, so now she’s expecting the medieval version of a Dom Bolton song, and he feels like he imagines his father must’ve felt like when his mother called to tell him she was pregnant.

When did he become that kind of guy?

“You really have to tell her, you know?” Wylla asks him, her hand on Alys’ arm to keep her from prancing around the room, and he nods. “I will, but you can’t tell her, okay? I want her to hear it from me, it’s only fair.” The girls nod at him, and Dickon pulls Alys in his lap, hugging her to his massive chest like he does with his older sisters, a human straightjacket, and Jon grabs the remote. Only a few minutes before it’ll be online, and Alys already looks like she needs a cigarette to calm down, Wylla keeps braiding und un-braiding and re-braiding her hair, and Sam has beats of sweat on his brow. This could be their breakthrough, and his hand feels heavy when he goes on Netflix.

⭐

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partially inspired by the [duct tape scene in _'Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2'_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53AeHMof6Dg)


	9. ⭐ chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people decide to be brave, some secrets are revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few shorter chapters for cliffhanging reasons - I'm sorry but it didn't work out like it wanted it to 😬

⭐

Christmas comes and Christmas goes – Sansa celebrates at Riverrun with the Tully side of the family, finally telling Gendry about the tickets on Christmas Eve, while Jon spends the holidays with his family down in Dorne, before he leaves for King’s Landing to stay with Rhae for a few days, getting ready for their gig. They don’t see each other, but they text, and video chat, and she thinks that it’d be nice if he were there, if he were a part of her family.

⭐

“I still can’t really believe it,” Gendry murmurs when her sister turns fumbles with the radio and a rough voice and soft guitar tones fill the whole car. The girls just nod – Sansa and Margaery are in the backseat, with blankets and all of their snacks, homemade, of course, while Arya is curled up next to him, her fingers wrapped around a paper cup of coffee and her eyes fixed on the highway signs, trying to figure out where they have to exit – and they listen to the song in silence, until they’ve left the King’s Road Highway and are on their way down a road Gendry knows from his infrequent visits home. He hasn’t been in KL for a few months, not since Tommen’s high school graduation, but he knows these roads well, and they’ve only been driving for two hours after spending the night at a small hotel in a smaller village, and by the time the chorus starts again they’re all singing loudly, even Margaery who doesn’t know the song that well, but manages to hit the higher notes without a hitch.

“You were so ahead of us all,” she tells Sansa with a grin, who only nods at Gendry, he was, after all, the one that introduced her to _Watchers On The Wall_. “It doesn’t matter,” he says with a shrug, shifting down before a curve in the road, “you never said anything bad about them, so it’s cool that you like them now.” And it’s true, Margaery never said anything against her music, just _‘that song’s good’ _and nothing more, neither interest not distain, until the final episode of this year’s season of _Winter Is Coming_ dropped and every radio station and every clothing store and every club started playing that song or the party remix someone made, and a few others of their newest album, too. Then it was _‘oh, is that your favourite band? Cool’ _and now she’s singing along when she hears _Eyes Full Of Stars_ somewhere.

She’s even got herself a ticket for the Watchers On The Wall concert, the concert that will be bigger than expected, because suddenly everyone wants to see them play, and so it’s been moved to the Dragon Pit instead of the smaller hall it was supposed to be at. Margaery’s not the biggest fan, but they’ve decided to end the decade with a bang, with a big party and everything. It feels like the end of everything, with them moving out and Margaery starting a new life in Harrenhal and everything, but they’re vowed to stay friends, even if they’re so far apart from each other. It’ll be like old times, Margaery said, getting ready and getting drunk and maybe getting laid – she’s determined to play the wing woman for Sansa and Jon, it seems – and it won’t be a goodbye, but a see-you-again.

⭐

She’s staying with Gendry’s sister, Myrcella, who has a big, cosy apartment in Flea Bottom with a good view of the Dragon Pit, and he’s sleeping in the guest room of Rhaenys’s elegant townhouse on the Hook, but they meet in the botanical gardens, because he loves the bushes covered in the thinnest layer of snow and the half frozen little ponds and he figures that, if everything goes to shit, they’ll at least be alone, or as alone as someone can be in a town like King’s Landing, without any sisters and their boyfriends looking on and making everything even more awkward. He’s nervous, even more nervous than when that fateful episode aired, more nervous than when Rhaegar’s assistant told them that their show was sold out and that her phone wouldn’t stop ringing, more nervous than when they were offered to play in the Dragon Pit during Gerris Drinkwater’s epic New Year’s Show. That show is the day after tomorrow, it might be the most important gig of his life, but all he can think about is Sansa, and the dread in his stomach at the thought of her being hurt by his shitty behaviour.

She’s ten minutes early, but he’s already waiting for her under his favourite tree – a Weirwood with a solemn face, the kind of tree his mother still prays to, even after living in Dorne for more than fifteen years now – and his knees grow weak when he sees her, thin coat and stockings and boots, and he’s ready to take of his jacket for her, but she’s used to the cold. She’s almost glowing in her white coat, her skin flushed and her hair bright against the backdrop of snow and ice around them, and he has to take a deep breath. If this is to be their last moment together, he wants to memorize everything about her, from the dragonfly rings on her fingers to the freckles on her nose and the way she looks at him, eyes bright and full of happiness. They hug, and he tries to savour it, the feeling of her in his arms and the scent of her hair, but it’s over too soon, and she’s telling him this and that, chattering away giddily, and he doesn’t hear a word of what she’s saying but he smiles because she looks so _happy_.

“I have a present for you,” he tells her, and pulls it out of his rucksack, the wrapping paper wrinkling under his hands, and she grins, her hand disappearing inside her purse. “Has have I.” They both look at each other with broad smiles, and she takes the parcel from his hands, slowly pulling away the paper to reveal a notebook bound in soft, pale grey leather with golden dragonflies and moths and butterflies stamped into it. “It seemed fitting, because you're the Princess, no, the _Queen_ of Dragonflies,” he murmurs, “and I wrote a few of my poems on the first pages” and she nods, her eyes a bit wet and her smile even broader than before, while she thumbs through the pages, reading a snippet of the text before closing it again. “It’s beautiful, it’s – it’s perfect. Thank you.”

Her present for him is wrapped a lot prettier than the one he gave her, with ribbons and a tiny spray of mistletoe, and he touches the ring carefully, his eyes tracing the shapes of wolves and snowflakes and stars etched into the broad silver band while he feels his breath giving out. “One of my colleagues know a goldsmith, and I thought – I hope you like it.” “Did you design that yourself?” His voice is full of awe, and she nods, smiling shyly at him, and he hopes that this is not the end. “Thank you. I think I’ll put it on a chain, wear it around my neck,” he whispers. _Close to my heart, if you’ll let me, if you still want me to have it after what I’m going to tell you. _He doesn’t say it, because his throat is closing up, and her eyes are so soft, so deep, that he wants to drown in them. They both draw a deep breath. They both steel themselves. They both start speaking at the same time.

“I’m falling in love with you.”

“I’m a member of _Watchers On The Wall_.”

“You’re – wait. _What?”_

⭐


	10. ⭐ chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The concert, and a kiss💕

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being a bit short, but this chapter is the last thing I'm posting this year, this _decade_, and I hope that you enjoy it 😊 the last chapter/epilogue will be posted in the _**Golden20s**_✨

⭐

Her head is still spinning, and even after two days she’s not entirely sure what she’s thinking. She’s talked about it with Gendry and Arya and uncle Brynden and Margaery, she’s called Wylla and asked her for an explanation, she’s stared at the texts he sent her right after that meeting at the park – just _‘I’m sorry’ _and_ ‘If you want to talk, call me. Anytime’_, which means that he doesn’t want to border her – and she’s gone over his words countless times now, over all he said before she left the park, left him there with a sad face and his hands buried in his pockets. She understands him, to some extent. He didn’t want to make things awkward that day at the record shop, and then everything just happened, and she understands it, but it still hurts that he kept it a secret from her, especially that they got to make a song for _Winter Is Coming_.

She thought he wanted her to be a part of his life, but he shut her out, didn’t let her in, kept his walls up and his armour on. He didn’t tell her the important thing – they talked about their past, about his time in the army and what happened to him there, and the things that happened in King’s Landing and in the Eyrie, but he kept this part of his life, the part that matters so much to her, to himself. And she went out there and tried to be brave and told him how she felt, how she still feels about him.

In the end, she decides to go to the concert. She doesn’t know what she’ll feel when she’ll see him onstage, if she’ll be angry, or disappointed, or just heartbroken, but she wants to go, with Gendry and Arya and Margaery and Myrcella. Have a good time, dance and sing, end the decade that holds so many painful memories, the decade that saw her lose her parents, her older brother, and a part of herself, surrounded by people she loves with the music of the band that helped her through some of the darker times. She won’t go for Jon, but for Wylla, who’s becoming a close friend, and she wants to introduce Gendry and Arya to the band, to Alys, who’s so much like her sister, and the others. She’ll hug Wylla and Dickon and Sam, and then she’ll see what happens with Jon.

Maybe he’ll apologise and ask if they can still be friends, maybe he won’t even look at her, but she _has_ to know how he feels about it. If he’s sorry, really sorry, she’ll forgive him. But at night she still dreams of him confessing his love for her.

⭐

His gaze doesn’t find hers in the concert hall – it’s a trope of fiction, unrealistic but romantic, and she feels a pang of disappointment at first, but why would he see her? She’s in a huge crowd, there’s a light show, and he’s concentrating on his guitar and on his bandmates and the music, as he should, and her heart shouldn’t ache for him this way, but then, but then –

All of their songs are sung by Alys with her rough, edgy voice, when Gerris, the show’s host or moderator or whatever, gets on stage to tell the crowd that there are only a few minutes left ‘til midnight, it’s Jon who comes forward. He looks so shy with his slightly wavy hair falling into his face and his hands gently clutching his guitar and his crooked smile, and she feels herself melt. She’ll go to him after the show, ask him if he meant all his apologies and his explanations, if he kept anything else from her – Wylla told her that he doesn’t, but she wants to hear him say it – and see if there’s still hope for them, when he opens his mouth, and the crowd calms down a little.

“Hey, I’m Jon. I, um, wrote most of our songs, like _Eyes Full Of Stars_–“ the crowd cheers, and he waits for a moment, before he continues. “Which is about Ysabel from _Winter Is Coming_. A- a friend of mine always calls her the Princess of Dragonflies, so I wrote a song about dragonflies.” He takes a deep breath, his fingers closing over the round pendant of the necklace he’s wearing, and leans over the microphone, his voice deep and soft and rough with a hint of sadness. “So this is our newest song – _She’s Dancing With The Dragonflies_.”

⭐

Gendry and the girls are backstage with the band, but she went outside, and now she’s standing in one of the broad alleys of King’s Landing. Thick smoke is hanging low in the streets, fireworks hiss and dye the night sky golden, but somehow this alley is almost deserted, just a few people with cigarettes hanging from blue lips and bottles of champagne and liquor dangling from frozen hands while they watch the colours of the sky change above them, and the air is cold and surprisingly clear. It’s peaceful, and it clears her mind, and she pulls her coat tighter around her – she’s wearing a plaid shirt over her band shirt, but the band shirt is cropped, to better match her high waisted ripped jeans, and she may be from the North, but she still feels the cold.

The song is still playing in her head – _strong and brave and gentle_, that’s what he sung, and she’s almost entirely sure that that song was about _her_.

Jon is wearing a coat, too, when he comes outside, and it surprises her. He’s running, almost sprinting, his coat open to reveal a band shirt, like the first time they met, but this time with one of her designs, his face is flushed and his hair is wild. “You’re still here, thank the gods – I worried I’d miss you,” he pants, and she shakes her head. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she answers softly, and grabs the lapels of his coat to button it up. “You’re going to catch a cold,” she murmurs, and he murmurs back “That’s what Wylla said after she told me you were outside. Wouldn’t let me go without grabbing my coat.” His voice is thick, and she doesn’t dare look at his face, concentration on her numb fingers and the buttons instead, when she sees the ring, the ring she designed for him, on a silver chain on his chest and her breath catches in her throat.

“That song,“ she starts, but he grabs her hands and holds them in his to warm them, and answers before she can even finish her question. “Was about you. Sansa, you’re important to me and I’m so, so sorry about lying to you and hiding things from you. I swear I won’t ever do it again, if you can just forgive me. And if you don’t, I promise not to bother you again.” “You should’ve told me sooner. Right at the beginning.” “I know. I’m an idiot, an ass, an–“ She’s still clinging to his lapels, and it’s easy to pull him down and to cut him off with a kiss.

🎇

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so the whole thing with the song and the show was originally kinda inspired by Florence + the Machine and [_Jenny of Oldstones_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eTa1jHk1Lxc), as well as [Ed Sheeran's song for _The Hobbit_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2fngvQS_PmQ), but I watched _The Witcher_ on Netflix, and now I'm kinda addicted to [_Toss A Coin To Your Witcher_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqbS7O9qIXE) lol


	11. ⭐ chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A happy new year to you all and to your loved ones - may the 20s🥳💃🍾🎉🎇 be a wonderful decade! 
> 
> And now: the reason why I wrote this whole fic. This was meant as a one-shot, just one or two thousand words about the morning after, but, as you can see, it escalated a bit.

⭐

She wakes up warm, naked, comfortable – and alone. They stumbled into bed together after kissing each other dizzy on their walk from the Dragon Pit to Myrcella’s place, but now the bed is empty next to her, and the clothes lying around the guestroom are only hers, her jeans and her plaid shirt on the chair in the corner, her band shirt on the floor, but his things are gone, and she feels horrible. At least there’s an en suite bathroom, and she grabs the band shirt from the floor and picks up her makeup bag and goes to brush her teeth. Her hair is a mess, there’s a love bite on her neck, and the long t-shirt cannot hide the fact that her panties are more comfortable than sexy, but he’s not here, so it doesn’t matter.

When the door bell rings, once, twice, _trice_, she goes to open it. Maybe Myrcella and the others didn’t come home last night – it wouldn’t surprise her, Arya’s always been the type to stay out the whole night, the type that has breakfast before she comes home in the morning after a night out – or someone forgot their keys, but when she opens the door it’s _Harry_ of all people. He comes in as if he lived here, greeting her as if she didn’t catch him cheating the last time they saw each other, and asks her if Margaery’s awake. Sansa just stares at him without blinking, not sure if he’s serious or not, when her friend comes out of the other guest room, impeccable even after a long night of partying with her hair on rollers and adhesive compresses under her eyes, her face a mask of disgust.

“Really, Hardyng? I don’t know how dumb someone can be.” She says, and, with a glance at Sansa she explains. “We met at the concert last night, and I was drunk and told him where we’re staying.” “You said ‘No, I’m drunk’, so I decided to come back when you’re sober,” Harry adds, as if it would explain everything, and Margaery shakes her head, hissing _‘never’_, before disappearing back into her room, and Harry looks at Sansa as if he’s never seen her before, and she pulls down the hem of her t-shirt – it barely covers her butt and her panties, and they’ve had sex while they were a couple, but she doesn’t like the way he looks at her, as if she were a piece of meat.

He notices it, and looks at her shirt, apparently recognising the design. “Oh, _Watchers Of The Wall_. Saw them last night at their concert, they’re awesome. You should go to one of their concerts sometime, I’d be more than happy to take you, so that you can see what good music is.” He’s grinning, clearly trying to be charming, and she raises an eyebrow. “_Really_,” she says, not a question but a silent dare, but he doesn’t understand. “Yeah, a lot better than all that shit you’re always listening to. This is real music, not like the stuff you always wanted to force me to listen to.”

There’s a fire burning in her veins, a cold fury in her belly. He _cheats_ on her, he _lies_ to her, and now he acts as if _he_ is the one who liked _WOTW_ first.

“Oh, I remember how _I _wanted to introduce you to their music _a year ago_, how you told me that their music is shit and that Dareon Lover’s _sooo_ much better, that I don’t have any taste, that I–“ “Whoa, you’re not really thinking that _you_ knew them before _I_ did? I discovered them first, and you don’t even _know_ them,” he scoffs, and she’s so so very close to _yelling_ at him that she almost doesn’t hear the doorbell ring again. Harry presses the buzzer without even looking who’s out there, saying, “maybe it’s your roommate’s newest fuckboy, or some idiot who believes you when you say that you tried to make me listen to _Watchers Of The Wall_, I don’t care. Nobody here appreciates me, so I’m going to– “ The last word dies on his tongue when he opens the door to a flushed, sheepish looking Jon.

“Wait, you’re– “ he starts, but Jon just shakes his hand and murmurs _‘hi’_, his eyes not leaving Sansa. He’s holding a cup holder and a paper bag, and his smile is so sweet, and her heart swells. “I went to Manderly’s – they didn’t have croissants with apricot jam, so I got you two with peach jam instead, and a latte with almond milk.” Harry, who probably didn’t even know what she orders from Manderly’s back when they were still dating looks from Jon to Sansa and back, and she can’t help but grin a bit, especially when Jon’s gaze lands on her tee and his brows draw together.

“I think you’re wearing my shirt,” he mumbles, and opens his coat to reveal the shirt he’s wearing – the same size and design as hers, but it’s cropped, showing off his toned stomach, and she almost starts laughing. Harry’s still struggling to understand what’s going on, and, pointing at Jon, he asks, “You’re–?” “Sansa’s boyfriend,” Jon answers before he has the change to finish his question, and Sansa adds “And he’s a member of _Watchers **On** The Wall_”, before shoving Harry out the open door.

Jon looks at her shyly when she closes it behind her ex’s back, and he sounds nervous when he asks. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked you before introducing myself like that. If you don’t want me to be your boyfriend that’s okay.” “You can be my boyfriend if you sing that song again,” she whispers when she pulls him down for a chaste kiss on the cheek, and he grins before he picks her up and spins her around and starts singing, a bit offkey, but more beautiful than anything she’s ever heard.

_She’s dancing with the dragonflies, _

_dancing with the dragonflies,_

_dancing with the dragonflies… _

🦋

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! The original idea was - you know when you like a thing, like a song or something like that, and tell everyone how awesome it is, and everyone's like 'that sucks, I don't like it', and a few weeks or months later it's on the charts and all the people that _hated_ that song are suddenly like 'this is awesome, you should listen to it' after giving you shit about it before? Well, this is some sort of revenge story - a story where Sansa’s answer is ‘I liked this before you did, and also I fucked their guitarist’s brains out last night, _take this’_, but, as I said, it escalated a bit.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out [my tumblr :)](https://kissed-by-circe.tumblr.com/tagged/laura-writes-sometimes)


End file.
